The Black Rocks of Morwenstow

by John Wilcox

  ‘Yes, I smelt it. Well, let’s hope that the Atlantic is kind and that the south-westerly that’s normal in the Bristol Channel doesn’t veer to a nor’westerly and blow into a gale. There’s not much room to manoeuvre a sailing ship just south of Lundy Island.’

  ‘Ah ja. I hope, too. Perhaps we both swim home, eh?’ They both laughed.

  The Atlantic was, in fact, kind to them until they entered the Doldrums, that strange patch of water in mid ocean where the wind deserted sailing ships, so that vessels seem to wallow, like flies caught in aspic, with no forward movement and where the same patches of seaweed would keep them company for days at a time. So it was now. The ship was dressed in lightweight, fine-weather sails to catch the faintest of breezes, but they hung, flapping plaintively from the yards as though they too were depressed at losing their sense of purpose.

  Not that it was a time of relaxation for the crew. They were kept busy continually, bracing the yards round and trimming the sails to capture the merest hint of a breeze that might mature into a wind, a proper wind. There was still time, however, for Josh to take out his precious cache of Mary’s letters and reread them all. Not that she was, he had to reflect ruefully, the most colourful of correspondents. She wrote, in her schoolgirl, rounded hand, of the daily chores she undertook in the vicarage to help her mother, now so painfully bereaved: of milking the two cows that they possessed, of regularly cleaning the church and of looking after the domestic needs of the young, unmarried clergyman who had replaced Mary’s father in the parish. She and her mother had been allowed to stay on at the vicarage, in fact, in exchange for undertaking these tasks.

  At first, when Mary wrote of the young man’s arrival from the east London parish where he had served as curate, Josh had developed strong feelings of jealousy towards him. These gradually died down, however, as the tone of Mary’s news about her life in Kent changed little. It seemed that the young man had slipped into the family’s life without causing even a ripple of change or resentment.

  The Reverend Charles Osborne, in fact, sounded as innocuous as he was, well, boring: a man of the cloth, completely dedicated to his calling and the caring of his flock. From Mary’s infrequent references to him in her latest letters it seemed as though the clergyman had no interests or desires outside his vocation. No cause for jealousy any more.

  No. Mary had stayed true to him, of that he was sure. She was anxious to be married and to have children. And she always ended her letters declaring her love for him, although she now regularly expressed the hope that, after his return, he would settle down in a seafaring job that did not take him so far away and for such long periods.

  They had met, in fact, when he had shipped as a hand on the cross-Channel packets that allowed him to lodge with the vicar and his wife and children near Dover most nights. It was his desire to widen his experience and to gain promotion that had prompted him to serve in ‘blue water’ ships. While he was lodging at the vicarage, however, he worked hard to be useful: drawing water, chopping wood and even milking the cows, efforts which he redoubled after the cholera had taken the men of the family.

  Josh had fallen in love with Mary almost immediately. At first she did not reciprocate, shaking away his hand as he tried to twine his fingers around hers as they walked on the clifftop above Dover. Gradually, however, she came around and, although she allowed no fondling – a discipline which frustrated Josh, for Mary had a more-than-ample bosom and a swan-like neck – she was happy to be kissed and hugged when they lay on the edge of a cornfield.

  He proposed to her shortly after her father and brothers had died and was accepted shyly by Mary, although, of course, she insisted that any union had to be blessed by her mother. Mrs Jackson, however, was not happy to see her only child betrothed to a penniless deckhand, despite her fondness for Josh.

  ‘Give it two years, Joshua,’ she said. ‘You are young. Go away if you must but show me that you can prosper in your profession and provide a good home for my Mary. Then you can wed.’

  So, for the first time, Josh had taken sailoring seriously. While serving on long-haul ships to Africa and the Far East, he had studied assiduously and won his tickets as third and then second mate. On landing, he intended now to submit his application for the next examination so that he could qualify as a first mate and then find a ship that traded in coastal waters off Europe. Then Mrs Jackson could not possibly withhold her consent and he and Mary could marry and – he tingled at the prospect – make children.

  A cry from the masthead ended his reverie and he tucked the letters back into their oilskin packet. A sharp crack like a pistol shot sounded as the mains’l split in two as a sudden gust of wind – real wind – hit it hard.

  Josh filled his lungs to shout orders, then thought better of it. That blast of wind, he knew, was the forerunner of a heavy squall and the lookout on the masthead was pointing to the western horizon where blue-black storm clouds were gathering. He must fetch the mate or the captain from their cabins.

  But the mate, at least, had heard the sound of the torn mains’l and burst from his cabin, buttoning up his jacket.

  ‘All hands on deck to shorten sail,’ he bellowed. ‘Watch on deck furl the royals now. Weyland, get your watch to put two reefs in the topgallants. Quickly, before we lose all the bloody sails.’

  Josh scrambled up the ratlines and, looking to the west, saw the squall bearing down on them, causing the once placid surface of the ocean to spring up angrily as the heavy raindrops thundered down. Reaching the topgallant yard, he edged his bare feet along the horses and began pulling up the buntlines into a loose reef, which he tucked under his arm, while he hung onto the yard with his other arm – ‘one hand for the ship, the other for yourself’ was the motto to be followed in a storm. He began trying to grab the reef lines, the ties that hung down from the sail, so that he could make a proper reef. He felt the horses tighten under his feet and realised that Jorgen had joined him, so he edged further out along the yard to make room for him. Within a minute, they had subdued the flapping sail and reefed it.

  The rigging was now crawling with sailors as most of the square sails were reefed and the ship, which had heeled over dangerously as the full force of the squall had hit her, was now racing ahead at a more acceptable angle, the helmsman on duty happy to bring her to the bearing that would take them home.

  Looking down, Josh could see the mate, standing four-square to the wind, with a great smile breaking his normally melancholy features.

  But … where was the captain?

  Josh could see no sign of him as he heard the mate call to bring the crew back down to the deck. He presumed that the task of changing sails would commence, as soon as this squall abated. Surely the captain would have noticed the heeling of the deck and would make his appearance? Yet his cabin door remained closed.

  Josh looked across to catch Jorgen’s eye. The Dane grinned broadly and made a drinking motion with his hand. Josh smiled back but he felt less than happy.

  The North Atlantic in September could be a treacherous place. As they funnelled down into the Bristol Channel, the brig would need a cool head in command to take her up past that Cornish coast, with its rocks reaching out like sharp, black fingers into the sea. He recalled that the cliffs that ran from Bude up to Hartland Point were called ‘The Wrecker’s Coast’.

  He also recalled a ditty that had stuck in his brain since he had first sailed those waters as a child:

  From Padstow Point to Lundy Light

  Is a watery grave by day and night.

  He shuddered involuntarily.

  The skipper never did put in an appearance on that day, as all hands were put to bending on the heavy canvas sails. Josh eventually plucked up courage to talk to the mate about it.

  ‘Mr Mitchell,’ he asked. ‘Has the captain been ill?’

  The mate’s great eyebrows came down like a hedgerow. ‘Not that I know of. What business is it of yours, anyway, Weyland?’

  ‘Well, sir, I know the
waters we are going to be sailing in once we round the Lizard and they are not easy, particularly if we hit bad weather. The distance between Lundy Island and Hartland Point, for instance, is only ten miles and I know from experience that the light on Lundy can’t easily be seen once visibility gets bad. I—’

  He was cut short. ‘That will be enough from you. Get back to your work. When the skipper and I want your help we will ask for it. Get up to the fore t’gallants and stay there ’til I call you down.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Up that mast, damn you.’

  Captain Lucas, in fact, ventured out on deck when they were nearing landfall. The weather was fine and it was the sort of day that made Josh glad that he was a sailor: the wind strong enough to keep The Lucy bowling along at some eight or nine knots, the sky a clear blue, the sun sparkling on the water and the ocean itself bluish green with a gentle swell that seemed to have been born off Newfoundland.

  The skipper looked wizened and hunched and his face, in stark contrast to those of his crew, a sickly yellow. He cast a quizzical eye up the rigging to the sails and, presumably liking what he saw, he coughed, turned and went back to his cabin.

  ‘Another liddle tipple, I tink,’ said Jorgen.

  ‘Well, I just hope the weather doesn’t turn on us.’

  They were interrupted by a cry of ‘Land ho!’ from the masthead.

  ‘Is it Cornwall, then?’ asked Jorgen.

  ‘No. More likely the southern coast of Ireland, because the course we have been set will have taken us in a wide sweep, a sort of curve, across the Atlantic.’

  ‘Ah, you know navigation. I wish I did. Will we put in somewhere, d’you tink, before we reach this Gloucester place?’

  ‘Not if we are to sail up the Bristol Channel, which we must. There are no real harbours on that Cornish north coast until we reach Bristol and, if I was the skipper, I would want to make up the time we lost in the Doldrums. So straight up to Gloucester, I would say.’

  He sniffed the keen breeze. ‘Weather seems fine, anyway. We should make the most of it.’

  And so they did. The Lucy had stood well out to sea approaching the British Isles, giving the coast of Cornwall a wide berth so that Lucas resisted the temptation to put in at Penzance or St Ives, setting a course to take her north-east up the centre of the Bristol Channel.

  ‘Good,’ said Josh to Jorgen, as they smoked a pipe together before turning in. ‘The wind’s from the south-east, so he should keep her slightly to the north to give us plenty of room south of Lundy. Let’s hope the wind stays.’

  But it did not.

  Josh awoke well before his watch was due on deck. He realised that the wind had come up and, by the feel of the ship, had now backed from the north-west. Ah, hell! Just what he had feared! He laboured to pull on his oilskins, for he could hear the rain beating down on deck, and was dressed before he heard Mitchell cry: ‘All hands on deck to shorten sail.’

  Quickly, he fumbled in his locker for the little waterproof bag that contained all his worldly treasures. He tied it firmly to his belt under his oilskins and groped his way towards the hatchway. His worst fears were realised as he gained the deck. The night was black but not so dark that he could not see that the sea had turned into a maelstrom of short-pitched waves, their tops white and sending spume away in horizontal sheets. The wind was howling between the masts like the voices of a thousand demented souls and he became concerned for the safety of the sails, despite them being heavy storm-proof.

  ‘Don’t stand and gape,’ howled Mitchell. ‘Get up aloft and put a reef in the topsails.’

  Josh caught a glimpse of the skipper, a small figure standing by the helmsman, huddled under oilskins, before he hauled himself up the ratlines, gripping tightly against the force of the wind. He realised that the order to shorten sail had been belated; a good seaman would have reacted as soon as the wind had shifted. Now, there was precious little time as the wind bulged the sails out and the ship heeled over strongly to starboard. He stole a glimpse to the south-east. No sign of land yet, thank God, although he could see little, anyway.

  Josh had experienced typhoons in the China Sea and caught the edge of a hurricane when leaving the Bahamas, but they were nothing like as frightening as this. It was no mere squall but a real nor’westerly, coming out of the northern Atlantic and screaming on its way towards the Bay of Biscay. What made it worse was that Josh had no idea how far they had been able to sail up from the Atlantic into the Channel towards Bristol – and, of course, how near they now were to the fearful north-Cornish coast.

  With the strong figure of Jorgen at his side, he was able to reef the topsail. As best he could sense from near the masthead, the helmsman down below was trying to bring the brig round towards the north. As he watched, the diminutive figure of the captain joined the man at the wheel and together they wrestled against the forces of wind and sea.

  It seemed to make no difference but Josh could not stay to watch for he and Jorgen must now slip down to the topsail yard to double-reef that straining sail, which fought them like a mad thing, water guttering from the ends to be whisked away by the rampaging wind.

  Would the skipper order all sails to be reefed, so that they would ride out the storm under bare poles? Of course not! That might be a rational thing to do, given the strength of the wind, if they were miles from land in mid Atlantic. But it would be madness with the Cornish coast so near, for they would need sails to harness some of the wind’s force and take them past the dangerous headland ahead. Josh remembered, too, that the sea hereabouts narrowed down to the Lundy Tidal Stream, a strong current that rushed up the Channel from the Atlantic. If it took The Lucy in its grip, then it might carry them through that so-narrow gap between the island and Hartland Point. Or, of course, it could push them to the south-east and negate all efforts by the helmsmen to bring the head around and gain some precious sea room away from the coast …

  The ship was now heeling over so that the tip of her main yards dipped into the sea and the mate had detailed a man to nail down the hold hatches and put extra lashings on the boats and water butts: a sure sign that the conditions were demanding the most extreme measures.

  Josh’s seaman’s brain pondered what else could be done. A sea anchor, perhaps – a makeshift raft-like structure that could be streamed astern of the ship to bring her head round? No. The rush of wind and water taking the vessel towards the south-east was too strong to be influenced by such a device; indeed, it would be more likely to accentuate The Lucy’s leeward drift.

  Shielding his eyes from the wind, Josh peered to the northeast, hoping to catch a glimpse, at least, of Lundy’s Light. Nothing. Except … what was that flash? Something had lit up the underside of the black clouds. Yes, there it was again, the Lundy Light. But it was coming from much further west than he expected. That meant that they were almost level with the most dangerous part of the Channel, where the sea room was limited and the cliffs of the Cornish coast were towering and broken only by a small beach or two – no anchorages!

  His musing was broken by a cry from the captain, who was pointing to the south-east. Josh followed the captain’s outstretched arm and, yes, there, briefly, flashed a light; perhaps a lantern, perhaps the riding light of a ship at anchor. As he tried to focus his gaze, he realised that the intermittent light must be coming from the north-Cornish coast, but too high to be a ship’s light. This glow must be coming from halfway up a cliff face. Perhaps the light from a cottage or … wreckers?

  Then he heard the captain scream orders and he and the helmsman pulled at the wheel so that The Lucy’s bow swung joyfully round, giving up the thankless fight against current and wind to run before the wind and head straight for that light and the dark cliffs that were now beginning to loom out of the darkness.

  ‘No!’ Josh screamed. He slid down the rigging, making his wet fingers burn, and ran towards the two men at the helm. ‘No, Captain. That’s no ship. There’s no anchorage there.’

  ‘Damn you
r eyes, don’t you tell me what to do. Get back aloft.’

  ‘You can’t head that way, Captain. I know this coast. You are about level with a place called Morwenstow. There’s no haven there. Only cliffs and a shingle beach at the foot, which you will never reach past the rocks. They’ll tear the bottom out of your ship. Turn the wheel, man.’

  ‘Mr Mitchell.’ The captain’s face seemed weirdly yellow in the darkness. ‘Put this man in irons. Or lash him to the mast. Get him out of my sight.’

  The mate spun Josh round and pulled him away. ‘You can’t interfere with the captain,’ he shouted. ‘You could end up in jail.’

  ‘And we will surely all end up drowned if that fool takes the ship straight into the cliffs. Stop him, Mr Mitchell. That light is not showing an anchorage because there isn’t any. I know this coast.’

  A scream from aloft interrupted them. ‘Breakers ahead. Straight ahead.’

  The two men peered past the bowsprit and glimpsed a sight that made them catch their breath. The ship was sailing – almost surfing with the wind behind her – straight towards a dark mass that stretched up much, much higher than the masthead. There was no flickering light now, only the towering cliff face and the roar of the sea breaking onto the rocks at its foot.

  Josh caught a glimpse of the captain and the helmsman frantically working the wheel to swing the ship’s head around, when the brig crashed onto the rocks with a force that tossed them onto the deck. The Lucy struck and stayed fast, the waves immediately breaking across the deck so that it was impossible to stand.

  ‘Up to the masthead,’ shouted Captain Lucas, crawling as best he could across the deck. They were the last words he uttered, for a wave picked him up and tossed him over the side, as though he was matchwood.

  Josh made it to the ratlines and hauled himself aloft, the mate close behind him. The two men joined Jorgen at the crosstrees, hanging on for dear life as the foremast swung with each wave that crashed onto the stricken hull. They watched as first the water casks and then the longboat were swept overboard.